Wednesday, November 18, 2009

weight: 133 lbscigarettes: 3 (4th one is in progress)complicated relationships: 3calories: too many to countepic fights with family members: 3

Apparently, 3 is the magic number for this week.

I decided to write this blog, not because I care if anyone actually reads it, but because I've read quite a few other blogs out there from people who seem to be in a similar situation to mine, and I've really enjoyed them.

Allow me to introduce myself. Twenty-six years old, recently moved back in with parents in Los Angeles. Job is in finance and is nothing to be proud of. Have fantastic dreams of career-writing, but serious doubts that it will ever occur. I hate this city, mainly on account of the temperature and the fact that I am paying inflated rents to live in a climate I don't appreciate. How is it that a giant pile of crunchy leaves in fall can make me so happy? Likewise, a sunny and warm Christmas day makes me want to slap mother nature straight across the face.

I have no real high school education, and have stepped foot on a college campus only a handful of times. Luckily, I'm not retarded. I credit that fact to the amount of reading I've done since I was a child. Books are my very favorite things in this world, probably because of the long stretches of private moments they require to be read.

I have many siblings, and a very close family. This unfortunately defines who I am as a person, despite my efforts otherwise. At least twice a week there's a gigantic family occasion which I am absolutely expected to attend. Growing up, privacy was a commodity I would kill for (and did attempt on a few occasions...) and now, after twenty-six years, four major attempts to get away from the people and the life I am an integral part of (translation: four failed major-relationships), I am back here. Sitting in my parent's house, on their computer, and am absolutely hating every minute of it.

My childhood dreams of publishing a best-seller that would take me away to a Pacific Northwestern water-side loft with a big dog and a cute guy... well... they've obviously not worked out. Now it's time for a plan B, but unfortunately, I've never had a plan B. And at this stage in the game I'm finding that anything I can manage to dream up involves meeting someone with the drive and the wherewithal to remove me from Los Angeles. So I've spent the last six months working towards this plan B. And I think I even found it, a few times over, but... jesus effing christ... it's just not what I want.

Have you ever experienced this? Is this just because I'm in my mid-twenties and this is something that every woman goes through in their mid-twenties? I feel like my head is spinning around in circles trying to land on something that seems like the answer to all the searching I've done. Some grand activity or plan that will make the days feel worthwhile, and make me excited about tomorrow, and next week, and next year. Instead, I go out, and get obscenely drunk with my other confusedly single twenty-something girls who can't manage to find something sufficient to dedicate their life towards.

And that, I think, is what this blog will be about. I do realize it's self-important sniveling from an entitled spoiled brat that should just get her shit together and have enough guts to make a decision... but hey, if you are actually reading this, then maybe you've felt the same way.